Dark Empire
by LuciusMCassius Yari
Summary: AU Harry Potter meets WWII. Slash, squick, incest, rape and other wholesome things that come with war.
1. Prologue: Rebellion Rises

Dark Empire

**Disclaimer**: All belongs to Rowling. Nothing belongs to me. Except my collection of pennies.

**Rating**: R, perhaps even NC-17 later on.

**Summary**: This is an Alternate Universe ficcie. Just pretend that you are in the late 1930's to the 1940's, and that the Nazi's were instead rampaging wizards.

"blah"- talking

* blah *- thoughts

 WARNING: (skip if you feel fit to do so) There are no wands in this story. Magic is generated through the palms of one's hand, making a duel, or and kind of wizard conflict much more of a battle of skill, instead of a 'who can say a word faster game'. Wizards, since there are no wands, prefer to use Muggle mechanisms such as cars, boats, and airplanes instead of levitating themselves everywhere (there really are no brooms either, because while they can be made, they are seen as gaudy, outclassed, and inefficient). Guns are used instead of 'Avada Kedavra', simply because it's a hell of a lot easier to pull a trigger than to mumble a bunch of words and hope that the spell works. At this point, Voldemort has started a movement to purify the world of Muggles and Mudbloods, setting up massive killing factories, or enslaving them as workers on farms. He believes that it is because of Muggles that the world has fallen into such disarray and is set on eliminating them all.

DOUBLE WARNING: While there will be a comfortable quantity of heterosexual relationships in this story, there will also be a comfy level of homosexual ones too. Because that's just how life is, baby. 

Prologue: Rebellion in the Air 

                "SURPRISE!!!"

                Harry Potter jumped three feet into the air and instinctively fumbled for his revolver. The lights flashed on and he was greeted by the smiling faces of his best friends, Ron Weasly and Hermione Granger, who at this moment were both clothed in the only festive clothes they owned. Hermione in a gingham dress with pink rosebuds patterned all over it, and Ron in…a sweater that looked like it had been barfed on by every participant in the latest Pot Luck dinner. 

                "Happy Birthday, Harry!!" They both yelled at the top of their lungs, and loud swearing, along with scuffling behind the couch could be heard.

                Harry blinked.

                "Birthday?" he repeated. Was it really his birthday today? It _was_, wasn't it! How could he forget his own birthday? He slapped his forehead and immediately regretted it. 

                "Hey, Harry!" Sirius Black jumped our from behind the couch, followed by Remus Lupin, who was nursing a bruised elbow, and Neville Longbottom, who looked apologetically at his former teacher. Fred and George Weasly squeezed out from behind the radio, Mr. and Mrs. Weasly, along with the rest of the Weasly family climbed delicately from under the table, and Dean and Seamus poked their heads out from the kitchen, already beginning on what Harry supposed was his birthday cake.

                "Happy Birthday, kid." Sirius gave Harry a hard slap on the back, and pulled a bottle of wine from under his shirt. "Here's something that'll ease those nerves of yours."

                In a fluid motion he popped the cork, and to everyone's further surprise, removed a wine glass from his shirt as well. Crimson alcohol poured from the green opaque bottle and into the crystal glass, for a few moments Harry was fascinated by all the swirling colors, and by the possibility that he would finally get a taste of real wine.

                "Got it from France." Sirius winked at Harry, shoved the glass into his godson's hand and turned to assuage Remus Lupin who was eyeing Harry like a worried mother hen.

                "Jesus, Moony, its not like it's going to kill him…" Sirius said under the angry glare of his friend as he walked Remus out of earshot. "Just a little sip won't—"

                Harry was immediately distracted from his godfather and his teacher as he became swarmed with freckled faces and red hair. The Weasly family crowded around him, each holding trinkets and kind words. Everyone knew hard times had befallen London, not to mention Britain, and Harry almost cried, knowing that each person in the room had starved for the money to buy such things. Ever since Voldemort had conquered France and Finland, all the remaining ports to foreign nations had closed, cutting off desperately needed food and fuel supplies. Despite its power, England was not able to function only on its own goods. It did not have enough energy resources, nor did it have the valuable produce that could only be grown in warmer climates. It had been at least a year since the stores had stopped stocking fresh oranges and spices. Fresh food was sold at insanely high prices and for that matter, so was wine; they could only be bought if one had the appropriate ration coupons. Yet Mrs. Weasly strode forward, a small carton of clementines in her arms. A sly smile plastered her face. All doubts of Molly Weasly's intelligence were erased form Harry's mind.

                "Thought we might enjoy these, seeing as how its your party and all…" she beamed, putting the box in Harry's other arm.

                "Oomph!" He replied, and struggled to balance his wine glass in one hand, and the clementines in the other. Cautiously, he began to shuffle in the direction of any stable surface, wary of being surrounded by so many people all carrying packages. In an ungainly manner, he staggered into the kitchen and let Dean and Seamus rip open the carton for him. He took a plump fruit and shoved it in his pocket before returning to the "party". It was an enjoyable experience. A shining light of happiness in a storm of sorrow. Harry hadn't felt so at ease in years, when he had been going to boarding school with friends now dead, and had studied under Albus Dumbledore himself. He cried sporadically throughout the party; when Lupin gave him the framed picture of his parents, when Hermione gave him a Best Friends locket, and when Neville had handed him a wrapped Remembrall. Fred and George Weasly had pulled a gag gift by installing a new toilet seat in his bathroom, and Ron had given him more alcohol. 

It wasn't until the party had begun to wind down, with everyone relaxing at the dining table, having feasted on his "birthday bread" (there was no sugar, so Mrs. Weasly had to bake something more akin to bread) that Harry's last guest arrived.  There was a light knock at the door, and a grim faced Dumbledore walked in. In his hands he carried a small box, and his worn, olive green overcoat. 

"Happy Birthday, Harry." Dumbledore smile, eyes twinkling, "I can hardly believe that you are eighteen. You don't look a day over twelve."

Everyone groaned, especially Harry.

"Gee, thanks, I guess." Harry replied, rising from his seat to greet his mentor and trusted friend. The old man drew him into a hug, patting the boy's back affectionately. 

"How are you my boy, well?"  
                Harry shrugged, "As fine as a rebel commander can be, I guess." 

"Good, good…"Dumbledore smiled, the stared off into the distance, a look of regret on his face as the smile melted away. "I am afraid that I do not come bearing the best of gifts, Mr. Potter."

Harry shrugged again.

"That's okay. I'm still used to getting nothing on my birthday. Really."

"No, no, I'm afraid that's not what I meant, Harry…" The elder wizard shook his head sadly. At this point, the room was silent and everyone watched their exalted leader carefully. They had learned that only a great tragedy could muffle Dumbledore's mirth. Sirius Black, Head of the French Resistance, spoke first.

"What is it, Albus?"

The old man hunched against the doorway, dark lines of shadow played on his face making him appear even older and more tired.

"I have terrible news." 

Sirius, jumped to his feet, followed by Remus and Arthur Weasly. All were prominent resistance members that worked throughout Europe to glitch Voldemort's plans. Many of their loved ones had been lost in the war, and they were dedicated to grinding the Dark Lord's war machine to a halt. Arthur gathered support by having secret rallies, using his charisma to convince the neutral nations to serve as smuggling stations for supplies and refugees. Remus was a refugee runner, and he helped Muggles, Mudbloods, anyone on the run from sure execution across the English Channel. Sirius Black of course, was the biggest hell raiser of them all, and he headed the resistance in France, which contained over one million members. Sirius was the most wanted man in Europe; he came second only to Dumbledore and Harry Potter.  

Albus continued.

"Voldemort has become suspicious of our leads in the Schutzstaffel fold. He has replaced Avery."

Sirius swore. Arthur Weasly shook his head in relief.

"I don't see how that changes anything. Avery was never on our side anyway. Besides, he never found anything on any of our leads. Even the ones who work as janitors and conspicuously gather all the trash." He breathed a deep sigh.

"I disagree." Remus frowned. "Avery was inept. What if they put a man in that is…well…competent? If Voldemort already suspects our main leads, not only are they in danger, but the whole operation could be discovered. We need to know who the new assignment is, and pray he doesn't have anything larger than a plum in his cranium."

"Right." Sirius nodded, "Dumbledore, is the new assignment on our files?"

"Oh yes." Dumbledore replied, still hunched in the doorway, "Very much so."

"Will he be a problem?" Sirius replied, curling and uncurling his fists.

"Worse, I'm afraid."

"How?"

Dumbledore sighed again, rose from the doorway, and gingerly sat in an offered chair. He gave young Ginny Weasly a short smile as she handed a cup of steaming tea. He sat ominously at the table, everyone waiting on his answer.

"We have reason to believe…that Voldemort has called in his replacement from East. The only man fit for supervision there is…"

He took a sip of the steaming tea. The room was silent.

"…Lucius Malfoy." He finished.

The house exploded in swear words and the tapping of hurrying feet. Sirius gave Harry a goodbye kiss on the forehead and ran straight out the door. Mrs. Weasly began wailing as she and Arthur Weasly grabbed their coats, and Remus Lupin smiled sadly and he gave Harry one last hug. Fred and George let out a war yawp, and told Harry to enjoy his toilet seat and that they were sorry they couldn't stay for tea. Hermione mumbled about having to run file checks for Minerva McGonagall, head of the Resistance Intelligence. She waved and flounced off with Ginny. Ron looked torn, but his older brothers Bill and Charlie barked a few orders in his direction and he went flying out the door. 

"I'm awfully sorry, Harry." Dumbledore said over the great din, "I told you I didn't have the best of presents."

"Its-it's okay." Harry tried to smile, but for some reason his lips wouldn't move. Perhaps it was because he was back in a war again. He fingered his revolver, and looked out the window to survey the smoldering ruins of London, the result of multiple bombing raids. Hermione and Ginny were walking under the Ridgeway; they stopped to buy a newspaper, then disappeared. Harry knew he would not be called for until the morning, but it was still disconcerting to not have to run out the door as well. All his friends were successful, even Neville. He was only a figurehead, far to valuable to risk sending out on the frontlines, far to recognizable to go undercover. Oh, but how he wished he could do _something_. Suddenly, it felt as though the whole world was resting on his shoulders. 

"I think I'll go to bed." He said quietly. Only then did he notice that he was alone again. The small brown package Dumbledore had walked in with sat on his dinner table. Ripped wrapping paper was strewn everywhere.  He stepped gingerly over the mess and walked to the table. The wine bottle Sirius had given him was still half full, and he poured himself another glass. He sat down at the head of the table and pulled the package towards him. Spidery writing scrolled over its cover:

_Dearest Harry, the times grow ever darker and I feel that everything will come to an end soon. Therefore, in order to tip the scales in our favor, I feel it is time for you join in the fight. With this gift comes the heaviest of responsibilities, although I feel you are capable of handling such things. While I cannot walk the streets with your present in my arms, I can give you the capability to gather it on your own. It belonged to your father, and his father before him. This world is no longer safe, Harry. Please take care. _

_Dumbledore._

Harry ripped the package open, and found two tickets to Rumania. Underneath them, wrapped in tissue paper was a little, shiny gold key, covered in tiny engravings. When he squinted, Harry could just make out a tiny 'P' on the center of the golden key.

_* I've got to go all the way to Rumania to open my 'present'? *_

Harry groaned. 

Dumbledore had been right, he decided later on while packing clothes for the boat ride across the English Channel. He really didn't have the best of presents.  

That night, after he had cleaned all the wrappings off the ground and the mess Dean had made in the kitchen, he sat in bed staring out the giant dining room window. He looked out in awe as the first snowflakes of the year fell past the glass panes. He wondered if it was snowing in France.  

 The bright spark of happiness flickered and died out.

Prologue Fin.

A/N: Hmm.. This is for your future reference in these stories, so take note. Harry and Co. did go to Hogwarts, however, there was no Slytherin House. Slytherin, in this story, broke off from the Hogwarts Four, and founded his own school, Hausser, in central Europe. Therefore, Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise, Pansy, ect, know each other, but they do not know of Ron, or Hermione (or vice versa). Of course, everyone knows about Harry. 

LMC


	2. Chapter One: The Wolf Returns to the Pas...

Dark Empire

**Disclaimer**: All belongs to Rowling. Nothing belongs to me. Except my collection of pennies.

**Rating**: R, perhaps even NC-17 later on.

**Summary**: This is an Alternate Universe ficcie. Just pretend that you are in the late 1930's to the 1940's, and that the Nazi's were instead rampaging wizards.

"blah"- talking

*blah *- thought

WARNING: While there will be a comfortable quantity of heterosexual relationships in this story, there will also be a comfy level of homosexual ones too. Because that's just how life is, baby. 

Chapter One: The Wolf Returns to the Pasture

The morning was calm at the Wolf's Lair, Voldemort's manor and headquarters. Mist rolled in softly, refracting the sun as it rose over the mountainside. The Wolf's Lair looked more like a fortress than a house as the light hit its high stone walls, and flickered across polished razor wire. Hundreds of men dressed in black marched along the walls, their barracks filled with laughter as breakfast came to the relieved shift, and the new shift began to assume its duties. Cars pulled in and out of the heavily guarded gateway, and high-ranking generals strode back and forth in their ironed uniforms. The Wolf's Den was a veritable hive nest of activity, with men in heated debates hunched over maps, and maids scurrying to bring them all coffee and tea. Behind the base was a valley of softly rolling hills covered in thick, tender grass and willow trees that waved like dancers in the wind. It was there that the Dark Lord himself sat, in his favorite wicker chair, surrounded by silent, attentive bodyguards. In the valley dozens of children laughed and danced, waving colorful silks and balls that he had given them. Voldemort did enjoy the sound of a child's voice, and partook in it quite frequently. Of course, only the purest children were allowed on his grounds, and all of them were blond, with sparkling blue eyes and cheeks that blushed at the slightest bit of exertion. Those that were judged fit to enter Wolf's Lair, were given the most delightful sweets and toys. No child wanted to leave once they had come. That was how the Dark Lord liked it, and it was a favorite pastime to sit in his chair and watch them scurry about in their innocence, dancing and singing tunes that did not exist.

"Such a pretty boy," Voldemort sighed as the seven year-old Henry Nott ran by to collect the shiny red ball that had slipped through his fingers. The tow-headed boy did not hear him, and swept up his ball, laughing with the other blond, blue-eyed children as they began to play a new game. The Dark Lord turned to the figure behind him, a man swathed in black, knee high leather boots, and a tight black uniform. The man observed the children, arms crossed as he casually rested his shoulders on the tree trunk of a nearby willow. His silver hair fell meticulously over one shrouded eye.

                "Wouldn't you agree," Voldemort said to the man, "That young Nott is a sight to behold? Salazar Slytherin knows he certainly didn't get that face from his father. His mother must be quite a specimen, a pure creature. And purity can cleanse even the filth of muddy blood and all the bastards in this world who spread such a disease. What do you think, my dearest friend? Eh, Lucius Malfoy, commander of my elite extermination unit, the Schutzstaffel?"

                Lucius Malfoy curled his lip in an unpleasant manner, watching the children run to and fro, laughing at simple jokes. He, unlike Voldemort, found all children repulsive and unkempt.

                "If filthy blood was so easy to eradicate, then I wouldn't have to spend so much time spilling it, my Lord." Lucius declared evenly, standing at attention behind the Dark One. "Young Nott might be pretty, but it will not last long. You, of us all, should remember old Avery Nott wasn't so hard to look in the face when he was this boy's age."

                Voldemort smiled and returned his attention to the children. To anyone else, it would seem the smile of adoration, the smile of Virgin Mary gazing at her son, an expression of absolute rapture. To Lucius there was no peaceful tugging of lips, nor was there any affection. Lucius knew his master well, better than the fools that had thought themselves favored by the Lord, and found themselves at the Lord's favored end of an execution line. He knew it was never a good thing when the man smiled. He knew that Voldemort wasn't even a man, and for that matter, neither was he. 

                "Do you really think so, Lucius?" Voldemort asked quietly, "Or are you a bit jealous that young Draco Malfoy is not here with my brood?"

                Lucius, despite his resolve, stiffened visibly. 

                "Not to worry, dearest friend. I have heard a great many things about your son." Voldemort continued, turning to watch the elder Malfoy, his smile deepening, "That he is the best in his class at _Hausser_, decidedly brilliant and arrogant, an expert fencer, horseback rider, and swimmer, received a perfect discipline record; _and_ a prime specimen of purity; there's not even one crooked tooth in his precious mouth. Should I even bother mentioning his lineage? You have sired quite an accomplishment."

                "You've been…keeping a record of my son?" Lucius kept his tone unreadable, his eyes blank. Voldemort narrowed his eyes and smiled further, his slit-like mouth curving open revealing snake-ish fangs.

                "He is graduating soon, yes?"

                Lucius nodded stiffly.

                "How old will the boy be, dearest friend?"

                "…Fourteen, sir. He has skipped several grades."

                A silence assumed its position over the discussion, and Voldemort fixed his red pupils squarely on Lucius. Never once had the Dark Lord trusted his General, nor _any_ of his allies, for that matter. But unlike the rest of his followers of importance, Voldemort was quick to note Lucius had gray matter between his ears. The man unnerved him, (if such a thing were possible) with his uncanny ability to slip through any political or military situation virtually unscathed. And Voldemort did not like it. When rebels had stormed the Schutzstaffel headquarters, the general had been there calling out orders, driving the desperate men and women back. When the instructions had come to cleanse the world of Muggles and Mudbloods, he unflinchingly set up massive killing factories, which now put to death enormous numbers of filth. When the Great Army turned to him to pacify conquered provinces, he lured them into support with his magic-coated lips and promises of extra rations, turning a nuisance into full-fledged support.  Lucius Malfoy, the Lord had decided, was too good at what he did. 

As a safeguard, Voldemort had sent him to the east, where there was little he could do beyond twiddle his thumbs, for there were not enough troops to conquer anything, and too little political sway to topple governments. Still, the man had managed to forge alliances with Slavic militant groups, and had begun managing raids into villages and cities, looting and pillaging the nations' wealth, and sending the treasures back home. The people saw Malfoy as an unsung hero wherever he went; the Dark Lord knew that this was useful, no matter how annoying. 

Having now conquered or neutralized all of Europe, save Britain, Voldemort decided it was time once again to release his sleekest wolf into the pasture. Lucius Malfoy would govern the devastated lands, turn them into machines that would power the war, and Voldemort would keep his eye on the Great Army as it finished taking Britain. It was a gamble, the Dark Lord knew, to have his back exposed even to his most prominent general. Therefore, Lucius would be granted power only if Voldemort was given a hostage to control the man. It would be the Dark Lord's reassurance that his most intelligent servant was still on his side. 

Voldemort wanted Draco Malfoy.

"I simply _insist_," he hissed quietly, "that your son join me upon his graduation at my resort. Here, he can learn everything he needs to know, under the best of instructors.  The stress of war won't misplace a hair on your son's head, and he will finish his education under _my_ wing." 

Voldemort rose from his wicker chair, luxurious robes flowing in the soft late-summer breeze. The smile was gone from is lips as he finished.

"There's no need to worry, Lucius, I can assure you myself that he will be by my side _at all times_."

Lucius stood still like a marionette; his joints locked in surprise, yet his eyes still blank and impassive. He had been prepared for this. Years of watching muggle women and children being shot and thrown into their graves, screaming for mercy, even as their brains spewed from their skulls, years of seeing men under his command openly raping women, girls, even boys on the streets, and witnessing his counterparts torturing men by ripping out layers of entrails slowly, letting the juices ooze out of their bellies before their very eyes-all this had hardened him to a diamond point. Years of participating in such activities had dulled whatever pain he felt. Even the pain of losing his son. Worry? He tightened his lips in a wan smile. Who had the time for worries?

His master, receiving no reaction from Lucius, smiled again, although it was more of a threatening snarl than anything else. The awkward moment passed when the blond children began a new game, pulling one of Voldemort's bodyguards in to join. The man mortified to the point of gibberish, tried to escape their eager hands, but he was soon caught up in an elaborate circle as the children danced around him, laughing and singing. 

"I have decided to give you command of Severus' units along with your new responsibilities," Voldemort declared after the moment passed, "Avery does not trust him, and neither do I. He is suspected of treason, although there is no proof, and none of the military generals have time to baby-sit the man. I want you to watch him, Lucius, make sure he is loyal to the cause…"

Lucius saluted and they became solider and commander again. With a twirl, Lucius placed his polished military hat back onto his head and replied,

"Is that all, sir?!"

Voldemort waved a hand.

"That is all, my wolf. Go forth and create hell."

Lucius turned sharply and began to walk stiffly off the grounds, purposely stepping on the children's daisies.

"And Lucius?" Voldemort called. The elder Malfoy halted and turned, a look of weariness in his gray eyes.

"Do have your son here by the end of the week, or I shall be forced to retrieve him myself."

The general saluted once more, before stalking off into the mist.

* At last, * Voldemort closed his eyes, listening to the children's laughter, * At last it is almost finished. Wait for me Albus. Don't get yourself killed protecting Potter, yet.  I have a magnificent surprise, just for you. *

A shiny red ball bounced against Voldemort's feet, and he picked it up. Henry Nott came bounding to his side and smiled innocently at the man, holding his hand out expectantly. The Dark Lord looked at the boy, running over every nuance of the child's face. Perfect. A perfect, pure child. He smiled and handed the ball back.

                "Thank you!" Little Nott chirped before bounding back to the cluster of children. The bodyguard had finally achieved his freedom, but only after a vigorous run and a rather brilliant display of agility. His fellows were quick to lark at him. After having cussed them out in a display of gestures and colors, he returned to his position. Bored, Voldemort turned from the grounds and began to walk back to his headquarters. There, he could finalize the plans for Britain's invasion.   

Fin.

A/N: Hausser is a school that Himmler, head of the SS (Schutzstaffel) set up prior to WWII to prepare future SS elite. Only perfect applicants were accepted (at least 5' 11', couldn't have any teeth filled, blond hair, blue eyes, yadda, yadda, yadda). Once graduated, the young men would be sent to Himmler, who would determine their position of command. The Schutzstaffel began as protection to Hitler although they expanded into intelligence, executioners, and fully mobile military units, and served as a sort of mystical brotherhood. Members usually consisted of gentry, nobility, and the educated upper and middle classes. Only those who were "racially pure" could be accepted. Lovely history lesson for ya, seeing as how I can be incredibly obscure in terms of my allusions and referencing. 

Sayonara:

LMC


	3. Chapter Two: The Possession

Dark Empire

**Disclaimer**: All belongs to Rowling. Nothing belongs to me. Except my collection of pennies.

**Rating**: R, perhaps even NC-17 later on.

**Summary**: This is an Alternate Universe ficcie. Just pretend that you are in the late 1930's to the 1940's, and that the Nazi's were instead rampaging wizards.

"blah"- talking

*blah *- thought

WARNING: While there will be a comfortable quantity of heterosexual relationships in this story, there will also be a comfy level of homosexual ones too. Because that's just how life is, baby. 

Chapter 2: The Possession 

The Resistance Headquarters were located in a most unusual place. General Avery, ugly and stupid bastard that he was, never fully realized that it might be just across the street from his Ministry. No, as a General it was his duty to assume that all resistance members lived in the sewers, dressed like ragamuffins and couldn't speak any proper language, be it French, English or Japanese. Little did he know that all members of the resistance were very fluent, for there had never been a lack of imaginative swear words in the Headquarters all day, most especially in the office of Sirius Black.

"Well give me a shit-in-a-can." Sirius breathed softly, flipping through a folder thick with articles and references. "Who in the thirteen layers of Lucifer's anus is this man? Is he human?"

"Yes, he's human." Remus snapped, becoming quite fed up with his friend's earnest need to use lurid and twirling language in his presence. "Didn't you have to work a file on him five-odd years ago? When he was first employed by Voldemort?"

"Well…" Sirius leaned back in his chair and dropped the folder onto his desk. "That was just when he was a supervisor. I had about fifty other assignments at the same time, and all he did then was baby-sit one of Voldemort's cults. I thought he was just another grunt. Fuck me, I didn't even know where he was from."

Remus gritted his teeth and reached for the bottle of Aspirin in his pocket. A little voice in the back of his head told him that he would need it. 

"Some job, Sirius." He muttered, "How did you get this far again?"

"Cause everybody else got killed," Sirius grinned devilishly, "So tell me about the elusive Mr. Malfoy again, Moony."

Remus rolled his eyes.

"Full name: Lucuis Diablo Malfoy III-"

Sirius coughed with laughter.

"Who the hell would name their kid Diablo? Are you telling me that there've been at least three members of this family with that crackpot name?!"

"Sirius-"

"And I've gotta _watch this guy? What's he gonna do, drink blood and sacrifice young virgins each night before going to bed?"_

"Sirius-"

"What's his son's name again? The Dark Lord Fucks-Me-Up-The-Ass?"

Remus felt a vein pop in his forehead.

"SIRIUS WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT UP!!"

"Fine, fine, but he still sounds like a smarmy cigarette brand to me."

Remus considered the consequences of killing the head of the French Resistance momentarily, but calmed down after envisioning several naked boys in garter. 

"Moving _on-" he glared at the man smiling innocently back at him, "Full name: Lucius Diablo Malfoy III, Age: 35, Rank: General, Grand Hyperion of the Schutzstaffel. He is currently in   
Voldemort's Council, and as far as we know, responsible for the resistance failure in Czechoslovakia. Also on his very in-depth resume is the set up of Azkaban and the Slavic Raids. He arrived two weeks ago in Paris, flew to Berlin for two days, flew to the Wolf's Lair for one day, and returned to Paris, where he is staying with Avery and undergoing a massive briefing. Although, I have a feeling that he will learn nothing of the current situation. Avery would never admit to his own incompetence, and just telling Lucius about the past week is like signing 'stupid' under his name. Was that too much for you to handle, you great cur?"_

Sirius leaned over the table and gave the werewolf a quick peck on the cheek. Remus blushed for a moment, his agitation gone as Sirius rose from his chair and came to stand next to him.

"Not at all. What do we have on his personality? I want to know his weaknesses."

Remus picked up the folder and flipped through it aimlessly.

"Not much. Voldemort filed him away for such a long time. All we know is what we can get. He visited the hospital six times in the past year, so we can assume he was fairly sick, and his son is almost finished his schooling at Hausser. Besides that…there's a few pain killer prescriptions that one of our leads got three years ago."

"An addict?"

"Not that we know of. Unfortunately."

Lucius sat on the plush leather armchair, legs crossed, with a cigarette in between his fingers. He faced the wall, which was bare, save a few cracks in the yellowish plaster and spots of mildew. A similarly bare lightbulb swung from a small chain on the ceiling, providing the only light in the room. The black curtains, the only visible sign left from Avery's reign, were covered with dust, and had formed a caked layer of grunge on the curtain rings. As usual, there was a look of disdain on the General's face.

He raised the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply. Nicotine. One of his many addictions; along with killing and morphine. Sex had lost its potency with him, and he mourned the loss. But even the syringe only temporarily eased the pain in his chest. Pain, ha…he exhaled, releasing a cloud of tabacco from his lips, wishing that he could keep the fumes within him permanently. 

There was a knock at the door and Lucius shifted his slanted grey eyes to it. 

"Come in." he spoke icily, absorbed in the cigarette and the smoke that rose from the nub of hot ash. The door opened with no amount of ease. There was a short sound of scuffling and then a full-fledged assault on the hinges with the officer's shoulder. The knob finally groaned and an officer tumbled in. Grey eyes scanned the man standing in the doorway. They missed very little, the officer's boots were ill kept and the uniform was shoddy, signs of a man who had far too much work, and no subordinate to do his bidding. His eyes moved on. The man had a lean body that stooped with weariness, but with no small amount of lithe muscle. Black hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, and the man's skin was scrubbed to a clean luster.

"So tell me, Snape…" Lucius drawled, "How do you like my 'office'? Is it not the envy of the Third Reich?"

Snape darted his black eyes over the room and nearly gagged. Lucius knew Severus Snape well; they had graduated from Hausser together, served in the same unit during the reign of Grindlewald, and joined Voldemort at around the same time. Of course, they had seen little of each other over the past two years, and just because they knew each other well, did not mean that they got along. Lucius felt that Snape was a man whose ambitions were larger than his abilities. He was an annoyance-like a gnat constantly climbing into his ear. But this was better that Nott or Avery, or nearly any of Voldemort's subordinates. 

"What is it Severus?" Lucius absently flicked the cigarette from his fingers and stomped the nub of ash out with his heel. 

"I've received notice from Avery that you are to head the Ministry now. Sir." Snape finished with a clipped tone. It was then that Lucius began to notice that which his eyes had not shown him earlier. Snape stood covered in a thin sheen of sweat and his knees knocked ever so lightly. The man's fists were clasped so hard Lucius was certain that without the gloves Snape would have drawn blood. So Severus Snape was scared. Of what, Lucius was certain he knew- the man was terrified as being identified as a main spy to the Resistance. Avery had not know of Snape's background when the officer had been assigned to the Ministry, but Lucius knew of Snape's long trips to England before the war, and of the man's once-close friend Dumbledore. He smiled, curling his lips softly, imitating Voldemort exactly. He made a metal note to avoid his leader more often. It wouldn't do to pick up psychopathic habits from his deranged leader, he had enough as it was.

"Is that all, Snape?"

The black-haired man twisted his lips.

"I was requested by Avery to give you a quick briefing, sir."

Well, this was interesting. Snape wasn't that far down the latter of command, and it was not his position to do anything akin to briefing. Snape was in charge of Ministry Potions, not giving the Minister spoon-fed information. No doubt Avery had sent the slime up from the dungeons to Lucius for a 'quick interrogation'. What fun.

"That's General Avery to you, Captain Snape." He drawled lazily. He was still very disappointed that he had been disturbed during his reverie. 

"Yes sir." The captain curled his lip in distaste. So Snape did not respect Avery. Not really surprising. There were few that did- even Voldemort had sworn in a rage that any half-witted man that could keep his mind on one task for more than ten seconds would be a welcome change to Avery. The piggy General spent more time at the military cabarets than at the planning table. Lucius didn't think he would have been able to tolerate working with such a man. But despite his many lackings, Avery was loyal and would always be loyal so long as there were riches. It was this that kept the General from being killed by Voldemort for his stupidity. Lucius needed no promises of riches, for his life was already opulent beyond his tastes. He, of all Voldemort's followers, knew how hollow and empty such a life could be. Lucius needed no promises for his services. He believed in reality, and his reality was Voldemort. It had always been that way. He had not bothered to wonder what else he might have been if he had not taken the Dark Lord's hand and sworn undying allegiance. Such things hurt his head with sickeningly sweet thoughts of romance and drama. He was no harlequin novel hero. He rubbed his temples in order to quell a rising headache and proceeded in the briefing.

"All right Snape, I want you to summarize our economic situation, our lovely 'political' hold, and resistance problems in less than five minutes. Try to be informative; I have enough of a headache as it is."

"Sir." Snape bit. "Our economic situation, while it could be much worse, is far from optimal. As you know, ever since Voldemort began his campaign in the Norwegian and African regions, the military has had to seize control of farms and factories. We seize produce, meat and dairy for our soldiers before it hits any civilian markets. While it's a cheap way to supply the front lines, it's led to massive inflation in both our currency and the black market- even though smuggling is punishable by death in our military courts. At this point we are looking at a 400% decrease in the value of the reichmark, compared to only a 200% decrease in the English pound. Neutral nations are beginning to refuse our payments for metals and gunpowder. Barter has become this province's currency."

The captain paused for a moment to look at his general. Snape was slightly amazed by the intense stare of his superior, and he felt his knees knock a little bit more. Lucius Malfoy reeked of Voldemort, the unnerving calm, the half-lidded eyes, even the way he smiled. He only prayed that the General did not also posses the Dark Lord's perceptiveness. He knew this briefing was bullshit. He had been sent here for an interrogation, and staring into the cold, pitiless caverns of General Malfoy's eyes was almost as nerve wrenching as a drought of Veritaserum. 

"Sir?" he asked, not bringing himself to look the silver-haired man in the face. "Did you have a question?"

Lucius raised a fine eyebrow.

"Yes."

"Sir?"

"Do you think this room would look better with green or red curtains?"

Snape nearly choked on his own saliva. Lucius looked at him seriously, and rose from the chair to pace around the room. The man wasn't kidding. The mere idea of the General asking _him_ for interior advice! As if reading the Potion Master's thoughts Lucius sneered.

"No, I suppose there's no point in asking you, is there? Listen to my reasoning, then. Green is the serpent's color, Slytherin's color, Voldemort's color. It is something that we all wore when attending Hausser. But green is such a nurturing color. It reminds me of meadows and daisies and lambs. It is the color of tradition, of all that we have followed. Red. Red is the color of energy and passion. The color of blood. Red is what we have become Severus. Red is a fabulous color, Severus, and to truly appreciate it you must appreciate the very fluid that runs through your veins."

The General turned slowly to face Snape.

"Have you ever seen someone bleed to death, captain? It's beautiful. Sometimes they twitch; usually they hold their hands up to where the wound is inflicted. As if that could close up the holes."

Snape stared, blinked, and sweat some more. Lucius never ranted. There was a point to this rather graphic description, and he wasn't sure he liked where it was going.

"No, sir. I just work in the Ministry. W-Why do you-"

Lucius took two large steps toward Severus, until their noses almost touched. 

"Which color are you loyal to, Severus? The color of tradition and lambs, or the color of passion and blood? Which will you wave in the air when Armageddon comes? Which holds your conscience?"

Severus felt his sweat freeze. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his heart. *Breathe.  Keep your eyes closed. Don't let him see your eyes. God. He's very close. You've had a crush on him since your first year in Hausser and he's so close. Closer than he's ever been. Don't let him see you now, don't let him see your weakness. You know faggots are sent to Azkaban to be culled. Don't. Let. Him. See. Your. Eyes.* Lucius was trying to pin him down psychologically. Get him to say a few wrong words. Slip up and never be seen again.  

"Do you know what it's like to see someone close to you bleed, Severus?"

Lucius leaned in more, his lips nearly touching Severus' own, his equal height intimidating in its ability to mold to another's so easily. The General opened his mouth the same time Severus did, and their breaths clashed.

"No? I do Severus. Let me tell you what it's like."

He could feel the cold emanating from Malfoy's lips, and he felt nauseous. It was as though he were standing a hair's width from a corpse, the deadness in Malfoy's voice and the smell of rocks and earth and tombs. He wheezed, and made to step away, but he found his back against the crusty wall.

"Did I ever tell you what happened to her, Severus? She had a family home in France that she visited shortly after its annexation into the Empire. She was staying there alone. Draco was at school, I was in Berlin. Somehow, the Resistance learned of her whereabouts. They were too weak to attack an outpost, to cowardly to raid a prison. So they crept up to the house in the early morning and attacked her. They cut off all her fingers and her nose and hung her from the entrance by pounding six-inch nails through her body. She was left to bleed to death. Having received no word from her for a week, I returned to the manor in France to find her rotting corpse pounded to the door."

Lucius moved forward so that his lips touched Snape's. It was not a kiss; it was simply the meeting of skin on clammy skin. It was an invasion of space, and for a moment Severus thought Lucius was inside him, inside his mind, sucking all common sense out of his skull. 

"She was innocent, Snape. She knew of none of my crimes. Narcissa…was innocent. And a spy in the Third Reich took her away from me. A spy and the Resistance. A motley crew of cowards and thugs. She bled to death Snape, while birds picked at her eyes, and men had their way with her. She bled to death so that there might be a crimson flag that I can wave over the bodies of my enemies. Tell me Snape. Would you choose idealism over the blood of your love? _Would you kill an innocent for the sake of morality? Do you even know what morality is?_"

Lucius stepped back, his half-lidded eyes not once revealing his thoughts. He turned once more and strode to the door.

"We will continue this briefing tomorrow. Seven o'clock sharp." And then the Hyperion was gone, and with him went the deadness that Snape had felt in his heart. 

It was a long while before he could open his eyes again.

Fin.

**_Author's Notes:_**

Next Chapter: Harry and Draco go on their journeys. No plot so far, but it will get there. Thank for being patient.

Review and I'll give you a cookie.

LMC


	4. Take a Plane

Dark Empire

**Disclaimer**: All belongs to Rowling. Nothing belongs to me. Except my collection of pennies.

**Rating**: R, perhaps even NC-17 later on.

**Summary**: This is an Alternate Universe ficcie. Just pretend that you are in the late 1930's to the 1940's, and that the Nazi's were instead rampaging wizards.

"blah"- talking

*blah *- thought

Also for all you lovelies that reviewed. Chocolate chip cookies and milk. And some spoilers:

**Main future pairings include**: Lucius/Hermione, Lucius/Severus, Draco/Harry (but first a little Draco/Sirius), Remus/Sirius, Ron/Hermione

All the others are a secret. And much more naughty.  Warning: future incest, statutory rape, and torture

WARNING: While there will be a comfortable quantity of heterosexual relationships in this story, there will also be a comfy level of homosexual ones too. Because that's just how life is, baby. 

Take a Plane 

The latest raid on the railways had been a success. Sirius grinned as he walked to transit station; his hands tucked into his brown trench coat pockets. It had only taken a few dozen pounds of explosive and two weeks planning time, but it would take the Empire months to repair the damage. The Resistance had detonated the ammunition cars. There was no way to describe the devastation. Twisted car skeletons littered the railway, and the road itself was bent beyond repair. Smoke was still rising from the site, some five miles away from where Sirius now walked. Police cars screamed by, and excited voices talked of the Ministry's downfall. A few more attacks like that, and the Resistance could cripple the Empire war machine in Norway. 

                Several uniformed men in black ran briskly by, all holding guns and belts with loaded grenades. To them, Sirius was just a scraggly, underfed factory worker, dressing clothes too large for his slender body. To unimportant to stop and investigate. No, Sirius grinned to himself, this had been a good raid, and no one would have any idea how it was carried out, or who exactly had done it. 

                "HALT!!" A shrill voice screamed behind him. He walked on, figuring that no one would feel the need to stop a lowly grunt such as himself. 

                "HALT! OR I WILL SHOOT!!" At this Sirius paused and turned to look over his shoulder. Behind him, a weedy officer flanked by three others ran to catch up with him. 

                * Shit. What's going on? * Sirius swore again under his breath and turned fully to look at the men. They were SS, dressed in Ministry uniforms with tight black boots and wide black fatigues.  * Better act dumb. * He concluded before smiling at the men.

                "Hail Voldemort." He greeted them cheerfully.

                "This area is out of bounds for civilians!" the officer snapped. He was of thin continence, with a rat face and sandy hair. He was an ugly bugger. But he was not, unfortunately, out of shape. After an invigorating run to catch Sirius, the young man barely registered any signs of exertion. 

                "What are you doing here and where are your papers?!" 

                Sirius swore to himself again. He fumbled in his pockets before pulling out a creased and worn paper with his fake name and stamps. The officer snatched it from him, sneered and crumpled it up. 

                "You have passed the expiration date." He stated simply.

                "What do you mean I've passed the expiration date?! That's not until a few months from now!" Sirius growled, trying hard to keep his tone neutral. It wouldn't do to anger these men; the odds against him were too many. If all else failed and he changed into his dog form, the men would have a massive province-wide search ordered for him in minutes.

                "It seems to me," the rat-faced officer licked his lips, motioning to the men behind him, "That your expiration date has passed. You must be punished."

                Sirius felt his insides freeze. He had heard stories of men like this. Killers who stopped someone on the street simply to blow their brains across the pavement. For the sheer enjoyment of delivering the condolence message to the family and watching them weep. The bastards wouldn't get away with it this time.

                "If you will check sir," he replied calmly, not betraying his fear, "You will see that you have misread. My papers do not expire until May." 

                A sickening smile spread across the man's face.

                "We of the Schutzstaffel do not make mistakes. For your cheek there will be extra pain."

And suddenly there were hands gripping his arms and his legs, pushing him into an alleyway. They pulled at his clothes, ripping the trench coat off and a pair of hands worked on his belt. Sirius began to yell but the younger man pulled a bully club off his belt and hammered it onto his skull, jarring him enough to silence him. Boots with steel toes pounded his sides, and he was momentarily happy that they hadn't shot him. Large red spots invaded his sight and he choked on blood rushing up his throat. He could feel his body changing, his hands turning into claws, and his dark shaggy mane spreading down his back. 

                *I can't die now, not without telling Remus … * Sirius wheezed to himself, crumpling onto the cold concrete ground as the soldiers circled around him like sharks, drunken with their own rapacity. 

"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!?!" A furious voice roared from the entrance of the alleyway, and Sirius heard the foot-soldiers scrambling away from his prone form and towards the voice.

"S-sir!" the rat faced solider stuttered, "W-we just found this citizen crumpled here. It must have those Resistance g-goons again, sir!"

"Must have been…" Came the deathly quiet reply, both sarcastic and filled with silent promises of impending reprimands. "It must be horrible to be caught with your hand in the cookie jar, eh, Hendricks?"

The soldiers swallowed audibly, and Sirius could make out the rat-faced one trying to feign innocence. The rest simply steeled themselves for the approaching storm of moral reaming. As he began to regain more of his previously lost conciseness, Sirius's head began to throb, and he could only make out bits and pieces of the all-out verbal assault that was commencing. 

"IT'S BECAUSE OF YOU INCOMPETENT MORONS THAT THE RESISTANCE IS SO WELL SUPPORTED IN THIS CITY, DO YOU REALIZE THAT?!?!……" the voice faded out,  ".. …………..WE'VE JUST BEEN RAIDED AND THE ONLY THING YOU CAN THINK OF DOING IS BEATING UP SOME PIECE-OF-GARBAGE CITIZEN?!?! THE LEAST YOU COULD DO IS GO PUMMEL A MUD-BLOOD, OR EVEN BETTER, AN _ACTUAL_ RESISTANCE MEMBER!!!………" again the rush of blood to his head drowned out the words, "………………… AT THIS POINT YOU ARE CLOSER TO BERLIN THAT YOU ARE TO A PROMOTION, HENDRICKS, GOT THAT?!?!……………….. _IN FACT_, YOU ARE DEMOTED!!! …………………….ALL OF YOU PRIVATES ARE TO REPORT TO THE EMBASSY!!! NOW!!"

Damn. Sirius groaned, could the guy yell any louder? Remus was probably overhearing the entire incursion behind his desk in the Resistance Headquarters. Speaking of Remus, he was still trying to remember if that hot steamy night where the werewolf had worn a red leather corset was a dream or an actual memory. Must have been a dream, Remus had already admitted to Sirius that leather made him break out in hives. That had been a tragedy. But if that was a dream, then what about that night with the chocolate? And WHY am I thinking about that when I've still got a Schutzstaffel unit standing over me?   

"Sirius?" a sharp voice questioned. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Sirius' head snapped upward and met two fathomless black eyes. 

"Snape." He replied, "I have no fucking clue."

*                              *                              *                              *                              *                             *                

Draco Malfoy did not like planes. They were giant, obese, metal insects that relied solely on the power of physics to stay in the air. That, and annoying propellers that sounded like the re-enactments of the famous Wizards' Battle of Grindlewald's Defeat. And that certain battle had included 500 varying species of dragons that all seemed to have a particularly bad (and loud) case of gas. Planes were also easy to shoot down. Especially when they insisted on taking a route close to the ground and over well know Resistance territory. Yes, he much preferred having two feet solidly on the ground.

But for some reason, his father had demanded that he fly to Paris immediately after his graduation. Most likely his summoning concerned Voldemort, himself, and his father's new position as head of the occupied territories. He had been expecting this. It was assumed that Draco Salazar Malfoy would be plucked from Hausser and enlisted by Voldemort himself- underage or not. 

He had always been a successful child. He was baptized in unicorn's blood on the day he was born, and his godfather, the man to baptize him, had been Grindlewald himself. He had begun his official training as a member of the "Dark League" at the age of three, when he first learned to channel the pure-blooded energy that was a right to all the chosen through his palms. 

'You must be strong for the family, Draco.' His father had said, 'You must be the strongest and the brightest, because you are the last and the only Malfoy heir.' Draco wanted nothing more than to make his father happy. So he trained harder, everyday, until his tiny limbs were sweaty and he couldn't walk anymore. 

By the age of six he had mastered the Unforgivable Curses, even though they were seen as inefficient (for a bullet could kill faster and was far cheaper) and unsophisticated. Nothing had made him happier than seeing his father brag about his success. After learning the basics in magic, his father taught him to fence, to channel the energy from within him into the blade, and he excelled. He excelled at everything he did. It was sort of dull, being the Hausser golden boy, but when one had such an impressive lineage it was to be expected. Lucius Malfoy paved a very hard road to follow. Draco doubted, even with all his talents that he would be able to surpass his father's achievements. Not that he really wanted to. Draco, though he would never admit it to anyone, was not fond of blood, not like his father was, anyway. It was sticky and it reeked and it reminded Draco of his mother's corpse. 

The petite boy jumped to his fee instinctively at the sudden feel of a giant hand on his shoulder. 

"Draco, you ready?" the dull and deep voice of Vincent Crabbe, the human refrigerator, slurred. The older boy took a seat next to Draco, his pudding-bowl haircut flopping in front of his dark, thick face. 

"For what, Crabbe" Draco curled his legs underneath him, "The highly probable chance that as soon as I step off the plane, I'll be whisked away to Wolf's Lair and become boy-meat for Lord Voldemort? Or the possibility that we might be staying overnight in Paris?"

His conversational counterpart shrugged.

"In that case, hell no, I'm not ready. There are too many cabarets in Paris. And as for Voldemort," Draco spat, "I'd rather clean the bedpans in St. Mungo's Hospital for the Insane. And you know what they eat there."

He huffed and blew his sugary-silk bangs from his face. He made a mental note to cut his hair when  he landed. It had grown in layers, fickle hair that it was, and the longest strands touched the priest-like collar of his cloak. It was a "fuck-me-please" hairdo. Not a good thing to have when one is rooming with a homicidal, manic, psychotic, pedophile.  

Vincent flipped his hair again, then grunted in agreement and settled down for a nap. Snoring after only a few moments, Crabbe grumbled something and his hand caressed Draco's thigh. Ignoring the sleep-induced groping, he stared out the window and wondered when his fellow Hausser delinquents would stop hanging around the free bar.  

He had gotten used to Crabbe's late –night and sometimes midday affections. Hausser was an all boys' school that expected nothing but the strictest of discipline and absolute perfection. With those expectations came stress, and teenage boys got their stress off by fooling around. With girls from the neighboring Ladies School and with each other.  No one in Hausser was more sought after than Draco Malfoy, because he was pretty and looked just like a girl, and because of the way he glanced out of the corner of his eyes, lashes tilted just so. Crabbe had always wanted him. At the beginning of school, Crabbe had followed him around all day, into classes that weren't even his. Eventually, they had come to an agreement. Draco needed muscle and Crabbe was strong. Crabbe would follow him and protect him, and in return, Draco would let Crabbe slide in-between the covers of his bed and run his hands over his soft body. So it became habit. Crabbe was Draco's literal slave by day, and by night Draco was an erotic, live picture that the boy could masturbate to, rubbing his cock red and raw. But there was to be no sex. Never sex. Crabbe was basically straight and mildly ashamed of his obsession, and Draco was saving himself for…something.  Draco did not masturbate. He had killed, he had lied, he had covered his hands in the blood of innocents, but he had never done anything sexual, and the mere thought scared him. For what if he did not excel at such an essential part of life? And how could he excel, without being instructed before hand? 

Still three hours from Paris, Draco started to nod-off. Still half-conscious, he began to dream of blood and snow and a pale, sculpted body with a serpent's head.

Fin

Authors Notes: Har har har, mateys. Tis' been a while since I last updated. But I've been working on my original stuff that's supposed to get me accepted to college (since I illustrate it and I'm planning to major in animation) and also all of my damn AP summer reading assignments. Why the hell would anyone want to read Anatomy and Physiology of Plant Life in their spare time?! Hmmm. Not much here, unfortunately- I'd call this a .5 chapter, since Harry is setting out on his journey as well. Can you guess who Draco's "teacher" will be? Depends on how squick you are. I am personally very squick  (i.e. Draco/ Crabbe is pretty damn squick, although my friend Rachel has earned the Squick Queen award five times in a row) and therefore, so are my stories. Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed. I fluff you all, and I'm sorry that I'm so durn lazy. 

Ja!

LMC


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